


you don't know where you are

by saysthemagpie



Series: small town divorce fic [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Small Town, American Football, Angst, Anxious Niall, Blow Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Secret Relationship, Texas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 14:09:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10164647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saysthemagpie/pseuds/saysthemagpie
Summary: He doesn’t know what he was expecting. It’s not like Harry was going to greet him at the door, take him around and introduce him to all his teammates. That’d go over brilliantly, he’s sure.Hi, everybody, this is Niall. No, he can’t play football, but sometimes I let him jack me off in the showers after practice.(small town texas AU. harry's the star quarterback and niall's a kid from the wrong side of town.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is a standalone one-shot originally posted on Tumblr, part of a larger WIP arc called the [small town divorce fic](http://saysthemagpie.tumblr.com/tagged/small-town-divorce-fic). all you really need to know is that they all live in a football-crazy Texas town (vaguely _Friday Night Lights_ -inspired) where Harry's the town's golden child, and Niall's a kid from a troubled family. lots of angst! almost zero descriptions of actual football!! 
> 
> story-specific warnings for descriptions of panic attacks and internalized homophobia. most of this arc takes place in their early 20s, but in this fic they're both high school seniors. I use Niall's family's names, but the characters themselves are wholly fictional. 
> 
> title comes from the mountain goats, "going to wisconsin."

The new bartender gets a flat tire and shows up an hour late for his shift. Niall spends the whole time wiping down the same counters over and over again, trying not to stare too obviously at the clock over the bar. _Don’t be late, Horan,_ Harry’d said to him that afternoon, dropping his sweat-drenched jersey into the hamper Niall was wheeling into the laundry room. 

He’s pretty sure Harry was only joking. Niall doesn’t go out much anymore, between the bar and taking care of Bobby, but everybody knows a football party lasts all night—till the kegs run dry or the sun comes up, whichever happens first. It doesn’t make him any less fidgety, though, watching the minutes tick past. Some part of him wants to text the number Harry’d programmed into his phone last week, but he knows that’s stupid. Harry’s not going to text back, not with all his teammates around him. He’s probably already hammered, his arm around some cheerleader, Niall’s absence the last thing on his mind.

It’s nearly eleven by the time Niall pulls up the drive to the house. Bobby’s left all the lights on as usual, and Niall feels a twinge at the thought of the electric bill, sitting unpaid on the kitchen table. When he goes inside the TV’s on too, some game show with the volume on mute. Bobby’s passed out in his armchair, an afghan spread over his lap, a half-eaten frozen dinner on the tray next to him.

Niall finds the remote and switches off the television. “Come on, Dad,” he says softly, crouching down next to him. “Get a crick in your neck, sleeping out here.”

“Greg?” Bobby’s voice sounds quavery, confused, as he blinks slowly awake. When he sees Niall’s face, his expression shifts, something shuttering behind his eyes.

Neither of them acknowledges the mistake. “Come on,” Niall says again, shifting the tray to the coffee table. He gets an arm around Bobby’s narrow shoulders, feeling again how thin he’s gotten. “Up you go.”

Bobby doesn’t say anything else, just leans against Niall’s side as they shuffle slowly down the short hallway to his bedroom. Niall fills a glass of water from the tap and puts it on the bedside table, next to the pills Bobby takes to sleep. Bobby watches him in silence, perched on the edge of his mattress.

“You’ll be all right, yeah?” Niall says finally. “Got everything you need?”

“Where are you going?” Bobby looks up sharply. “Work?”

“No, out.” Niall doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Just—it’s a party with some kids from school, Dad, that's all. I’ll be back in an hour or so. You can call if you need anything, okay? I’ll come right home, promise.“ 

“Don’t get into any trouble,” Bobby says, a note of sternness in his voice. “You hear me, son? This family doesn’t need any more trouble.”

 _What family?_ The words stick in Niall’s throat. He clears it, then nods, already straightening up. “Yes, sir.”

He’d laid out his clothes on the bed before work, a nice button-down shirt and his good pair of jeans. There’s no time to shower, so he just strips off and rakes his fingers roughly through his hair, hoping he doesn’t smell too much like disinfectant and stale smoke. After a brief hesitation, he rummages around in his dresser for the half-empty bottle of cologne he’d stolen from Greg years ago, back when the room used to belong to both of them. He dabs a tiny bit of it on his wrists, then shoves the bottle back down under the heap of rumpled undershirts.

Harry hadn’t given him an address, but everybody knows the Styles-Twists live in the fancy new development up north. It’s a half hour drive across town, plenty of time for Niall to work himself up into a state of muted panic. He parks a few blocks down from what must be Harry’s stepdad’s house, judging from the long line of cars parked outside it. For a moment he just sits there in the dark, listening to the distant sounds of the party.

Someone bangs on the driver’s side window. Niall startles violently, hitting his knee hard against the steering wheel, then hurries to crank down the window. It’s Louis Tomlinson, number twenty-seven. He’s got a half-crushed beer can in one hand, his other arm around a giggling blond girl whose face Niall can’t place.

“You lost, Horan?” Louis isn’t slurring his words yet, but the way he’s pronouncing them, with almost exaggerated care, says he’s close. There’s a bright, sharp quality to his grin, something not entirely welcoming.

“Sorry,” Niall says, not taking the keys out of the ignition. He doesn’t think he could open the door anyway, not with Louis standing right there. “Styles said—there’s a party, right?”

The girl laughs at that, leaning against Louis’s side like he’s the only thing holding her up. He ignores her, still smiling. “There’s always a party at Harry’s, bro. Don’t think I’ve seen you at one of them before, though.”

“I work a lot.” Niall’s starting to feel uneasy. He’s barely spoken ten words to Louis in all the years they’ve been attending the same school, but he’s not an idiot. If Louis doesn’t want him here, Niall’s not going to land himself on the guy’s shit list. “Listen—maybe I’ll just go, yeah? See you at school.”

He’s turning the keys in the ignition when Louis slaps the edge of the window, stepping back.

“Relax, bro,“ he says with a sharp laugh. “Just giving you shit. You’re real fuckin’ twitchy, you know that?”

The uneasiness doesn’t lift; it just curdles into something else, settling in the pit of Niall’s stomach. He forces himself to laugh too. “Yeah,” he says, reaching for the door. “Sorry, man.”

He trails after them up the street, not walking with them exactly. Louis keeps sliding his hand up the girl’s bare side, up under the hem of her crop top. He leans close to say something low in her ear, glancing back at Niall over his shoulder. Niall pretends like he hasn’t noticed. When Louis’s not looking, though, he rubs his wrists on his thighs, trying to get the cologne smell off.

Harry’s stepdad’s place is massive, three stories of fancy stone and brickwork. The long, paved circle drive is packed with cars that probably cost more than Bobby’s whole house, and the lawn’s a rich, lush green despite the late summer drought restrictions. Niall’s queasiness intensifies as he climbs the front steps, pushing his way past crowds of kids into the packed house. Inside the noise is deafening, music pounding over the speakers, people shouting to each other over the din. 

Louis and the blond girl split off as soon as they’re inside, disappearing up the front stairs. A girl with curly dark hair, stumbling towards the door, runs smack into Niall, sloshing half the contents of her red Solo cup down his front

“Shit,” he says, with feeling. The girl hiccups, swaying, and he grabs her wrist to steady her. “You okay?“ 

“Sorry,” she slurs. “’M sorry.” She pushes the empty cup into his other hand and jerks free of his grasp, staggering past him out the front door. Another girl follows, calling her name. She shoots Niall a dirty look, like he’s the one who’s done something wrong.

Nobody else so much as glances his way. Half the school must be there, and from the looks of it the next high school over, too. Niall looks down at the spreading stain on his shirt—some kind of bright red punch, as luck would have it—and has to swallow hard around the sudden lump in his throat.

It’s stupid, feeling disappointed. He doesn’t know what the fuck he was expecting. It’s not like Harry was going to greet him at the door, take him around and introduce him to all his football friends. That’d go over brilliantly, he’s sure. _Hi, everybody, this is Niall. No, he can’t play football, but sometimes I let him jack me off in the showers after practice._

He’ll just find a bathroom or some paper towels or something, soak up as much of the stain as he can. Then he’ll slip out before anyone else recognizes him, tell Harry he had to work late. Louis won’t mention seeing him; Niall had been surprised, honestly, that Louis had even remembered his name.

He makes his way through the crowd towards what he thinks must be the kitchen. Halfway there he changes his mind—they’ve started chanting in here, which means keg stands, which probably means Harry and the rest of the offensive line—and retreats back towards the front hall. There’s a line for the downstairs bathroom; Niall sees Taylor, her long blond hair swept up into a ponytail, talking animatedly with one of the sophomore cheerleaders, and steers clear, heading for the stairs.

There’s a bathroom off the hallway, first door. Niall locks the door behind him, switching on the light. He grabs for the hand towel, wetting the corner, and starts dabbing at the stain.

Someone knocks on the door. Niall startles— _you’re real fuckin’ twitchy_ , he hears Louis say again—and then calls hurriedly, “Just a minute!” He flushes the toilet, then runs the sink again, quickly replacing the damp hand-towel on the ring. “Sorry,” he says, opening the door, and stops dead.

It’s Harry. For a brief, panicky moment Niall thinks he’s naked—but he’s not, of course, just stripped down to a ridiculously tiny pair of yellow swim trunks. He’s got a baseball cap on too, pulled on backwards over his unruly curls.

“Oh, hey.” Harry blinks slowly at him. “Just wanted to make sure nobody was up here, like, puking. My sister gets pissed.”

“Sorry,” Niall repeats, his face coloring. “I just—I, um, spilled something. On my shirt, I mean, not—not on the carpet or anything.”

Harry drops his gaze to the damp spot on his shirt, then drags it slowly back up again. There’s nothing overtly suggestive about it, but it’s enough to make Niall’s breath hitch. He doesn’t know where to look; he can’t trust himself not to stare at Harry’s pink mouth, at his pecs, at the visible bulge in his yellow trunks.

“Take it off, then.”

“What?”

Harry gives him a slow, lazy smile. “Your shirt, I mean. Take it off and I’ll give you another one. Could lend you some trunks, too, if you wanna go swimming.”

Niall can’t tell if Harry’s making a joke or something, if the joke’s on him. “That’s okay. I, uh—I should probably get going soon anyway.“

"Come on, Horan, you just got here. Don’t you want the grand tour?” This time Harry winks at him, adding in a loud whisper, “Bedroom’s the best part.“

It’s not—they’re not going to do anything here, right? Not in Harry’s stepdad’s house, with all those people downstairs. Still, Niall can’t help the way his body reacts, his heartbeat picking up. “You’ve got company," he says lamely. 

“Plenty of beer downstairs,” Harry says, shrugging. “Reckon they can look after themselves. Come on.” He’s already loping off down the hall, not waiting to see if Niall’s following.

Despite his promise of a grand tour, Harry doesn’t say anything more, just leads him straight towards another flight of stairs. It’s quieter the farther they get into the house, the sound of the party below reduced to the distant thump-thump of the baseline.

It’s not till they’re walking down a second hallway that he starts thinking about how fucking bizarre it is, really, Harry taking him up to his bedroom. They’re not—that’s not what they do, not what they are. Niall’s for when Harry gets bored of the rally girls and wants something easy, with somebody he doesn’t have to call after.

Maybe this is something else, Niall thinks with a sudden sense of dread. Maybe Harry isn’t taking him up here to fool around. Is it possible that he’s just been fucking with Niall’s head all this time–baiting him, maybe, and laughing it off with his teammates after. That would explain why Tomlinson was so hostile earlier, when Niall’s pretty sure Louis wouldn’t otherwise know him from Adam.

Louis’s up here somewhere, he remembers. The queasiness from earlier resurfaces, mixed now with something approaching terror. Maybe he’s waiting behind the next door with a few of his teammates, ready to teach Niall a lesson. Harry doesn’t seem like the type, but it’s not like Niall really knows him. In towns like this, people get the shit kicked out of them for far less than touching the star running back’s dick.

"It’s here.” Harry’s stopped in front of a closed door, the last one on the hallway. Weirdly, he sounds nervous too.

"Listen,” Niall starts to say, but Harry’s already pushing the door open, stepping inside.

It’s only a bedroom, thank god, empty except for a queen-sized four-poster at the far end of the room. Relief floods through Niall, so intense that for a second he can’t speak.

Harry yanks his baseball cap off, tossing it onto the dresser. He ruffles up his curls with his fingers.

“It’s kind of small, I know,” he says, like Niall’s going to complain. The room’s an odd shape, a lopsided pentagon with a corner wall cutting through what should be open space. It’s still about twice as big as Bobby’s bedroom back home, but Niall gets what Harry means. Compared to the rest of the Styles-Twist mansion, it does feel small—sheltered in, somehow.

“We used to live in this duplex when I was little,” Harry says. “A long time ago, before my mom met Robin. It had a living room like this. My mom hated it ‘cause the couch never fit right, but I thought it was cool. Used to pretend it was a spaceship—not Star Wars-level or anything, just a little one for the three of us. So we could fly around the universe just, like, seeing the stars.”

He breaks off suddenly, glancing sidelong at Niall. There’s something oddly shy in his expression, like Harry thinks he’s going to laugh.

“I like it,” he says, and Harry beams at him. It’s a heady feeling, making Harry Styles smile like that, the kind of thing you could get hooked on. 

He clears his throat. “You just bring me up here to talk, Styles?”

Harry’s smile shifts, then, into a more familiar smirk. He takes a step towards him, brushes his knuckles over the front of Niall’s shirt. “Nah,” he says. “Kinda had somethin’ else in mind.”

“Oh yeah?” He keeps his voice even, casual, but Harry’s smirk deepens, like he’s not fooled. He hooks his fingers through the buttons of Niall’s shirt, tugging him closer, and turns his head, lips brushing against Niall’s ear.

“Was thinking, like. You should blow me.”

A long shiver runs down Niall’s spine. They’ve never done that before, never gone further than quick, rushed handjobs against the lockers, Harry groaning into his shoulder, panting. Niall’s thought about it more than once, fantasized about dropping to his knees for him right there on the cold tile.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, all right.”

“Take your shirt off,” Harry says, and pushes him away, lightly. Niall scrambles to comply, fingers clumsy and awkward on the buttons, as Harry climbs onto the bed, shifting back so he’s propped up against the pillows. He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his swim trunks, waiting, as Niall shrugs off his shirt and toes out of his shoes. Harry hasn’t said anything about taking off his jeans, so he leaves them on, climbing onto the bed next to him.

Harry’s got barely any clothes on, but he still makes a show of it, slowly working his yellow swim trunks down around his hips. He likes being looked at, Niall can tell—but then again he must be used to it, all those eyes on him every Friday night. It’s not like he’s got anything to be ashamed of, either, not with those slim hips and tight little abs, a sharp V-cut pointing down like an arrow to his cock.

Niall watches it spring free. It’s as big and thick as he remembers, already fattening up. Harry takes himself in hand, gives himself a few strokes.

“You like my dick.” Harry’s voice sounds lazy and slow, amused. Niall doesn’t see any point in lying. He nods.

“You should suck it, then.” Harry spreads his legs in invitation, shifting against the pillows. Niall crawls up the bed towards him. He settles onto his belly between Harry’s thighs and parts his lips, lets Harry slowly feed his cock into his mouth.

He’s got no illusions it’s going to be the best blowjob Harry’s ever had. Maybe not even the best one he’s had this month, if half the rumors about him and the rally girls are true. But there’s a quiet little thrill in knowing he’s never had his dick in another boy’s mouth—that Niall’s going to be the first to make him come like this. It makes him suck harder, trying to bob his head the way he’s seen girls do in porn, nuzzling in so Harry can fuck into the soft part of his cheek. 

If Harry can tell he’s only done this once before, he doesn’t seem to care. He’s loud, groaning and swearing, and he won’t stay still either, tugging at Niall’s hair, bucking his hips up till Niall chokes and has to push them back down. He figures out pretty quickly that Harry likes that, the way it sounds when he’s making Niall take a little too much. So he does it again, pretends like his shitty gag reflex is even shittier, choking and gagging and drooling all over Harry’s stupidly big dick. It’s stupid fucking hot, almost overwhelming, the hot musky smell of him and the salty-bitter taste on his tongue, the way the stretch of it makes Niall’s jaw ache.

It’s so much better like this, with Harry spread out naked on the bed beneath him, not worrying about anyone hearing. Those first few times it’d been enough just watching, staring slack-jawed at Harry as he jacked off under the spray of the shower, putting on a show for him. The first time Harry’d let him touch—lacing his fingers around Niall’s on his cock, showing him how he liked it—it’d been almost too much. But Niall’s gotten greedy these past few weeks, hungry for it in a way that scares him. Now that he’s had Harry like this, naked and squirming beneath him, he doesn’t know how he’s going to go back.

“Gonna come,” Harry gasps, his fingers tightening in Niall’s hair. “Fuck, gonna make me come.”

Niall pulls back but not off, sucking harder at the head. He can taste how close Harry is, can feel the way his thighs are tensing. His own dick’s so hard it hurts, but he resists the urge to touch himself, contents himself with rolling his hips against the mattress. It’s only a minute more before Harry lets out a groan like he’s been stabbed, pulling his hair hard enough that tears prick at Niall’s eyes. Then he’s coming, dick kicking as he spills hot down Niall’s throat. There’s more of it than Niall had expected; he chokes a little, trying to swallow, and catches some of it on his cheek.

Harry’s barely finished before Niall’s rolling over to yank his own flies open, shoving a hand down the front of his jeans, too desperate to wait. When Harry reaches for him he twists away. “’M close,” he says, though really he’s thinking that if Harry’s going to have some big gay freakout, it’ll probably be about touching another guy’s dick. Niall’s determined to postpone that moment as long as he can.

Harry doesn’t push it, thankfully. He just shifts down the bed a little and rolls onto his side facing Niall, his spent cock nestled against his thigh. It’s a little disconcerting how close he is. Niall can’t concentrate with Harry’s eyes on him, wide and intensely green.

“You smell good,” Harry murmurs sleepily. His eyes flutter shut for a moment. Niall stares at his mouth, hungrily, then looks down before Harry can catch him staring. Harry breathes in deeper, his brow furrowing. He nuzzles his face closer, into the hollow of Niall’s throat. “S'it Tom Ford?”

“Dunno,” Niall mumbles. It’s whatever was on Christmas special at Walmart half a decade ago, back when his mother was still there to buy them presents and Greg was still around to open them.

He shoves that thought down, screwing his eyes shut.

“You always smell good,” Harry says, low. “Bet you taste good, too.”

Niall whimpers when he feels the soft, wet tip of Harry’s tongue press against the underside of his jaw. Harry licks at his neck, tracing patterns over the exposed skin there. It’s the closest they’ve come to kissing, Harry’s lips so near Niall could just turn his head, press their mouths together.

That’s what tips him over in the end, the thought of kissing Harry. Of Harry tasting himself on Niall’s mouth; liking it, even. 

He comes silently into his hand, too accustomed to thin walls to make a sound. Harry puts a hand on the back of Niall’s neck and holds him through it, breathing out hotly against the hollow of his throat. The gesture feels out of place somehow, oddly intimate. He wonders if Harry meant to do it.

It’s awkward, after. Niall lies there on his side, his sticky hand shoved down the front of his pants, Harry’s fingers curled lightly at the nape of his neck. For a long minute neither of them speak. Harry’s eyes are closed again; his breathing’s gone even, like he’s on the verge of sleep.

“Bathroom?” Niall says finally, his voice gruff.

Harry’s eyes flutter open again. After a moment he pulls away, rolling over onto his back so no part of his body’s touching Niall’s. When he speaks, his voice sounds oddly strained.

“It’s just down the hall. Second door on the right.”

Niall washes his hands in the sink, then splashes water on his face for good measure. Harry’s got soft, plush towels and spotlessly clean granite countertops. There’s a little stone cup by the sink for his toothbrush and toothpaste, and another with a handful of q-tips sticking out of it. It doesn’t look like a teenage boy’s bathroom. It barely resembles any bathroom Niall’s ever seen before.

When he slips back into the room, Harry’s put his swim trunks back on and is sitting on the edge of the bed, texting. He seems to have forgotten about the offer of a new shirt, so Niall picks the stained one up off the floor and puts it back on. It’s still damp in the front, crumpled now from where it’s been lying on the floor.

“I should go back down,” Harry says, still texting. “Make sure nobody’s broken anything.”

“Right, yeah,” Niall says awkwardly. “I can, um. I can wait.”

That makes Harry look up. “Uh," he says, eyebrow quirked. "Probably won’t be back up here for a while, bro."

Niall flushes. “No, that’s—I’ll leave, I'm leaving,” he stammers, tripping over the words in his haste to explain. “I just meant, like. I can wait till you go down, in case somebody sees.”

Harry’s silent for a second, his expression unreadable. “Good call,” he says finally, then stands up, swiping his baseball cap off the dresser. “Guess I’ll see you at school, then.”

“Yeah,” Niall says to Harry’s retreating back. He feels ill. “See you.”

It’s not going to happen again, he can tell that much. Something’s shifted in the air between them, the last ten minutes or so. A line’s been crossed somewhere, though Niall doesn’t know how or why. It doesn’t matter, really; knowing won’t change it.

And it’s not like he hadn’t known it was coming. Harry’s just been fooling around, trying something on for size. Harry’s doesn’t crave it, doesn’t _need_ it, the way Niall does. He’d understood all that, from the very first time Harry caught his eye across the locker rooms, that self-satisfied smirk playing on the corner of his lips, like he saw right into Niall’s brain.

It shouldn’t feel so much like a loss.

*

Ten minutes later, he’s still sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed, watching the minutes on the bedside clock change, trying to work up the energy to drive half an hour back home. The day’s finally caught up with him, all eighteen long hours of it. His eyes feel gritty and red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

“Styles, you in there?” someone calls from down the hall. He goes stock-still, just as the bedroom door swings open and Louis stumbles in. His eyes widen when he sees Niall. “What the fuck, Horan?”

“He’s lending me a shirt,” Niall says quickly. “Harry—um, Styles, I mean—he’s downstairs, you can ask him. Somebody spilled on mine.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Louis says, looking around the room like he’s expecting Harry’s to pop up on the other side of the bed or something. His eyes settle on the rumpled bedclothes behind Niall. “Please tell me you’re fucking kidding me.”

“It’s just a shirt,” Niall babbles, though he knows he must look a mess too, his mouth red, hair sticking up in all directions from where Harry’s been pulling it. Too late, he puts his hand over the damp spot on his jeans, which only draws Louis's eyes to it. “I don’t even need it, see? This one’s fine. It's fine.”

“I thought it was some fucking rally girl,” Louis says, ignoring him. “Could hear him halfway down the hall, that fucker. Bria thought it was funny, how loud he gets. Kept trying to figure out who was in there with him.” 

“I’ll go, right now.” Niall’s voice is pleading now. “It won’t happen again, I swear. Just—just let me go home, please.”

It’s too much to ask for Louis to keep it quiet, when they’re not even friends. Harry’s name’ll stay out of it, he’s sure—nobody would dare drag the town’s golden boy into the muck, not this close to the playoffs. But life’s going to be hell for him starting Monday morning, when the whole school’s found out that Niall Horan’s a fag. Jesus, Bobby’ll hear about it too, eventually. Niall doesn’t even know if he’ll be allowed to work at the bar anymore, if people’ll want a fucking queer pulling their pints.

He doesn't think he can bear it. He can’t bear the thought of everybody looking at him, talking about him behind his back. Speculating about what he gets up to in bed—if he takes it up the arse, too; if he’ll roll over for anything with a dick and a pulse. He can't see Harry saying anything to stop them. It’s not like he's Niall's _boyfriend_ or something, not like Niall was ever anything to him but a hand, a wet mouth, easy and willing.

"Jesus." Louis's shaking his head, a look of disgust on his face. Niall can't breathe. It’s like the air in the room’s suddenly thinned out, and no matter how much of it he sucks into his lungs, they won’t seem to work the way they should. 

Black dots dance across his vision. He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed. "Please,” he chokes out, or tries to, not even sure what he's asking for. He hears Louis say his name, but his heart's beating so fast he can't focus, blood rushing in his ears. Hands grab him by the shoulders. He flinches back, curling in on himself. 

"Hey," Louis's saying, but he's not hitting him, just holding him still. "Fucking—breathe, Horan, come on. Need you to breathe with me. Follow my count, yeah?"

Niall can’t nod, can't respond. He tries to concentrate on the sound of Louis’s voice, counting out his breaths for him: in for three, out for three, for four, five. It takes a while, but by six the abject terror’s started to abate a little. "Sorry,” he chokes out. Humiliation burns through him, scalding hot. He hunches his shoulders, staring at his feet. 

“Does that happen a lot?” Louis’s tone is different now, gentler, but it still makes Niall tense up. 

"It was only a couple times," he says. "It won't—I'll stay away from him, I swear." 

Louis makes a noise in his throat. "Not that," he says. "The panic attacks, I mean." 

Niall doesn’t know what he’s talking about. They’re not _panic attacks_ , they’re just—things that happen sometimes, moments where he can’t manage to keep his shit together. He's always been like that, twitchy and scared, though it's been worse since Greg's trial. “’M sorry,” he mumbles again.

"My little sister used to have them." Louis sounds uncomfortable now. "Didn't mean to, like—I was just surprised, that's all. And pissed off at Harry, but what else is new. Hey, no—breathe, Horan, breathe. It's okay, yeah? I’m not going to tell anybody about you and Styles, for Christ’s sake. It’s none of my fucking business where he sticks his prick.”

Niall can’t look at him. He still feels trembly and weak all over, like it’s a colossal effort just to keep sitting upright. “We’re not—it’s over,” he says. “It’s nothing. He’s not like that.”

Louis’s silent for a moment. Then he clears his throat. “You drove, right?” Niall nods. “Give me your keys, then. I’ll drop you home.”

“You’re drunk,” Niall says, shaking his head. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Sobered up,” Louis says. “Been two hours since I had anything, promise. Come on, I don't want you falling asleep at the wheel.”

Niall doesn’t have it in him to protest. He trails after Louis in a daze, down the hallway and the two flights of stairs, descending into a party that’s even more raucous than the one he left. Harry’s holding court by the beer pong table someone’s set up in the kitchen. He’s got an arm around the waist of one of the younger rally girls—Kendall, Niall thinks—and he’s grinning, leaning over to whisper something in her ear.

“Let’s go,” Louis says, steering him towards the front door and out onto the lawn.

They drive home in silence, the radio off. It’s just after one o’clock in the morning. Louis spends the whole drive staring straight out the windshield, his jaw a tight line. Niall’s too tired to even try and make conversation. His exhaustion seems to have settled into his very bones.

“It's here,” he says finally. Louis pulls into the overgrown drive, tires crunching on the gravel. He turns the car off. “You’re not driving home?” 

“I’ll walk,” Louis says, opening the car door. He tosses Niall the keys. “Only ten minutes or so.”

Niall takes a moment to digest this piece of information. He’d always thought Louis lived somewhere near Harry, or at least somewhere north of the river. Not this part of town, anyway. 

"You good?"

Niall nods. "Uh—thanks, man. For the ride." _And for not saying anything,_ he thinks, but doesn't say, in case Louis has second thoughts. 

Louis nods once, shortly. Niall’s walking up the drive, fumbling for his key, when Louis calls after him, “Hey, Horan.”

He turns. Louis's face is obscured in the dark; all he can make out is the outline of his slim body, the sound of his voice. "Yeah?"

“Harry’s—Harry," Louis says. "Just. Be careful, yeah?”

Niall’s too tired to puzzle out what that’s supposed to mean. “Thanks, Tomlinson.”

“Louis’s fine,” Louis says, then starts walking away down the gravel drive, hands shoved into his pockets. Niall stands there on the front stoop for a long time. He watches till Louis reaches the end of the street and turns, disappearing into the late summer night.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on tumblr! fic blog is [here](http://www.saysthemagpie.tumblr.com). EDIT: on tumblr hiatus, pls visit me on [dreamwidth](http://saysthemagpie.dreamwidth.org).


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